Day #207 Writing Through COVID-19: A Visit with My Parents (and my unicycle!)

Beautiful Saturday.

Dan is harvesting corn.

I dawdled through the morning, then ran four lovely miles on the trail. 

And then I tackled a goal I'd set for myself at the beginning of summer: I climbed back on my unicycle.
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I learned to unicycle eight years ago at age 52 when I saw the window for learning the one-wheeled ride closing fast. I'd always intended to learn and realized it was now or never. I watched Youtube videos and learned that it would likely take 10 hours of practice to learn the uni. 

I am not well coordinated, so I gave myself 20 hours to learn to ride. I figured if I practiced 10 minutes a day, I could learn it in four months.

I began by parking my car and Dan's truck close enough together that I could "ride" between the two, with my arms outstretched and touching both vehicles. 

Eventually, I moved onto the high-school track, where I'd touch a side fence with one hand as needed. 

I still remember the glorious feeling the first time I took off and felt myself balance on that single wheel. It was like flying. 
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I rode for several years--even in a few Homecoming parades. I took my wheel to the trail and could ride for a half-mile or more. 

But then, three years ago, while wheeling down the T-Bone, I met some bicyclists who called out goodnaturedly "You lost a wheel!" 

I laughed--but lost my concentration, and went down brutally. My knee was whacked. Not only was my unicycling sidelined, but I couldn't even go for a run for a few weeks. 

The incident scared me off the uni, and that scare led to avoidance. A year ago, I would have told you my unicycling days were over.
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Enter COVID-19.

My parents lived in my basement, requiring me to run up and down a flight of stairs a dozen times each day. My knees grew stronger.

With social life erased, I found time to run again (333 miles since June 9).

With all that running and no access to restaurants, I lost 20 pounds. I'm more physically fit than I have been in a decade; it was time to try the uni again. 

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This afternoon I headed to Ft. Dodge to visit my parents. I haven't seen them in the flesh for 10 weeks, and this might be our last lovely weekend for an outdoor visit.

When I arrived at Friendship Haven, I saw a woman sitting outside who I didn't recognize. But I recognized her dog: VERN!

Yes, it was my mom. But she wasn't wearing one of the five blouses she wore during her nearly five months with me. When I parked the car and greeted her with a masked and distanced air-hug, I told her I recognized Vern first. We laughed. I felt a connection in her eyes.
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I'd worried about this visit. The closeness I felt with my parents when they lived with me this summer was hard-fought. We came to our experiment with a rocky past. We had a couple weeks of confusion and uncertainty. We had to feel our way into our roles, our time together, our interdependence. 

I knew that when my sister from Davenport had visited my parents at the farm, my mom had found it stressful, which compounded her confusion. She spent most of their visit darting in and out of the house, wondering why they would not come in.

As I drove to Ft. Dodge, I braced myself for a difficult visit.
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To my relief, the visit was lovely. 

When I first arrived, my mom brought out the bubbles. My parents and I waved bubble wands, delighting in the bubble wave we unleashed. My dad said they'd invited other residents to join them in bubble-blowing, but with little (no) success. 

"They don't know what they're missing!" I assured them.
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My sister Adrienne joined us for the first hour. My parents had set up four (distanced) chairs. I asked them if the aides had helped them, but the proudly said they'd done it themselves. On the seat of my mom's walker was a tray with a bag of popcorn, a bowl of candy bars, and a bowl of fruit salad. My dad had made a pot of coffee and provided cups. 

"This is in reverse!" I exclaimed. "You are bringing me a tray of food!" 

It was a pleasure to be at the receiving end of my parents' hospitality. I ate fruit salad I wasn't hungry for, drank coffee that exceeded my day's caffeine allotment, and downed a candy bar I didn't need. My hunger was not for food, but to tell my parents I appreciated their gifts.
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The afternoon conversation was dominated by laughter as Adrienne and I shared our memories of church as children. I told about finding a book in the church library that I read during the service while sitting in balcony, dreaming of the day I, too, would sail around the world. 

Adrienne recalled her best times at church to be working in the nursery where she tended babies and also had access to the box of Nilla Wafers.
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After Adrienne left, my parents and I reflected on the afternoon, and then on their time living with me on the farm. 

We grew misty as we talked about the gift of unexpected time together. 
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My parents did not always approve of the choices I made. 

My parents did not know me on a personal level as I evolved into my adult self.

I did not know (or care) who my parents were as individuals when they raised us. 

That COVID-19 gave us the chance to re-meet is nothing short of what Donald Trump might call "a miracle.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

My parents (and Vern)